Coerced sterilization is a shameful part of America’s history, and one doesn’t have to go too far back to find examples of it. Used as a means of controlling “undesirable” populations – immigrants, people of color, poor people, unmarried mothers, the disabled, the mentally ill – federally-funded sterilization programs took place in 32 states throughout the 20th century. Driven by prejudiced notions of science and social control, these programs informed policies on immigration and segregation.
As historian William Deverell explains in a piece discussing the “Asexualization Acts” that led to the sterilization of more than 20,000 California men and women,“If you are sterilizing someone, you are saying, if not to them directly, ‘Your possible progeny are inassimilable, and we choose not to deal with that.’”
According to Andrea Estrada at UC Santa Barbara, forced sterilization was particularly rampant in California (the state’s eugenics program even inspired the Nazis):
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2017-03-24 15:46:262021-03-09 19:42:34The Supreme Court Ruling That Led to 70,000 Forced Sterilizations
I have never deleted an non spam email on my yahoo account in many years. Over 50,000 emails:)
I ran across this and thought I would share
Rocky Mountain News
By Mary Winter Staff writer
June 18, 2005
My three dads: Happy son has his hands full
Greg Wyatt was conceived 51 years ago on a medical-exam table in Lincoln, Neb. Wyatt’s dad was sterile, so a family doctor artificially inseminated Wyatt’s mom with sperm donated by an anonymous University of Nebraska student.
The procedure worked beautifully, and Wyatt turned out to be a healthy, smart baby.
Unfortunately, Wyatt’s parents hid the circumstances of his birth from him until his 28th birthday, when his mother revealed the secret to Wyatt in his room at a Boulder drug rehab center.
That was 22 years ago. Today, Wyatt lives in Prescott, Ariz., with his wife and two children. He’s clean and sober, he’s Christian and he owns a thriving real estate business. “God has been really, really good to me,” he says .
But the mystery of his birth and the search for his biological father defined most of Wyatt’s adult life. He found light at the end of the tunnel, but it was a long, dark, torturous tunnel.
In this age of medically assisted conception, with hundreds of thousands of embryos stored in clinics across the country, the truths Wyatt uncovered are worth revisiting.
I first wrote about Wiatt for the News in 1989. Wyatt described his dysfunctional childhood in Nebraska. Early on, he said, he knew something was wrong. Wiatt was blond with fair skin, standing 6 feet tall in his early teens. His father was 5-foot-1 and swarthy. Wyatt scored 157 on an IQ test. His father couldn’t read.
“Whenever I’d see a family picture, I’d say, ‘Boy, I just really don’t fit in here,’ ” he told me at the time.
Wiatt was suspicious, but his parents assured him he hadn’t been adopted. When his parents’ marriage fell apart, Wyatt dropped out of high school and racked up felony convictions for selling drugs. He switched to used-car sales, a job at which he excelled. In the early 1980s, a buddy convinced him to come to Boulder, where he sold cars, partied, collected pornography and got high.
When he came to see me in 1989, Wyatt was angry: He wanted to expose the lie he blamed for his addictions and messed-up life. He told me that in the 1940s and ’50s, a quarter-million kids were born, like him, through donor insemination. The vast majority were never told of their parentage, he said, because of the stigma attached to artificial insemination.
When I talked to him next, in 1993, Wyatt was still “on his long, long journey,” as he likes to call it. He told me he’d found his biological father by committing burglary to obtain his birth records.
Wiatt even visited the man, a prominent retired university chemistry professor with a heavy Dutch accent.
Today, Wyatt looks back at that moment as a turning point. “When I found my father, I found my life,” he says. The man, whose donated sperm produced at least five other babies around the time of Wyatt’s birth, didn’t want any association with Wyatt.
The rejection stung for years. But Wyatt moved on, married the love of his life, found God and found peace.
When his biological father died last year, Wyatt learned he’d been a Dutch resistance fighter in World War II whose legacy was a huge nonprofit retirement home he founded in Georgia, his “thank you” to America.
Wyatt is proud of that heritage, but the man he stands in awe of is Herb Wyatt, the man who raised him, the man who couldn’t read. Herb Wyatt, who died in 1983, shouldered unimaginable burdens that he shared with no one.
Herb Wyatt was an abused child who ran away from home at age 11. Labeled a delinquent and mentally slow, he was sent to Beatrice State Home, in Lincoln, where he stayed for a decade.
His release came with one condition: that he be sterilized.
Eugenics, the movement to create better humans through genetic manipulation, wasn’t just an invention of the Nazis but was, in fact, an accepted practice in America for the first half of the 20th century, Wyatt points out.
Like an estimated 60,000 Americans of his era, Herb Wyatt went under the knife to ensure that he didn’t breed more people like himself.
Wyatt calls his father “a very noble man.”
“He reminds me of a modern-day Jesus Christ. He was such a victim,” he says. But he had to be sacrificed for me to be conceived.
Wyatt says that on Father’s Day, he’ll honor all three dads: “the father who created me before time, the father who gave me life and the father who raised me.”
He’ll spend the day with his wife and daughter and his 7-year-old son Weston, an autistic child he calls “a gift.”
Everything in his life is now a gift, he says.
The keys, he says, are forgiveness and acceptance. “You must find forgiveness. If not, it will kill you.”
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2017-03-19 19:37:282021-03-09 20:42:27My Three Dads: Happy Son Has His Hands Full
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2017-01-22 12:00:362021-03-09 19:08:53The Beast Was Revealed to Me in 1973!
The Doctors sterilized my father. The Doctors artificially created me in a back room in a clinic. The Doctors told my Mom and Dad to lie and cover it up. The Doctors aborted two of my children. The Doctors injected toxic substances into my adopted children and destroyed their health. The Doctors want to destroy your health and life and create a never ending stream of revenue by creating a life of pain and suffering!
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2017-01-08 10:01:212021-03-09 18:59:20The Doctors Are Liars!
When I was born in 1955 the CDC immunization schedule was 2-3 vaccines. SIDS was unheard of. Childhood illnesses were not classified as disease and vaccine injury was virtually nonexistent.
Today the childhood CDC immunization schedule is now over 72 vaccines. SIDS is commonplace and we are told that childhood diseases are running rampant and that over 200+ vaccines are in development. The rate of autism in real numbers is 1 out of 5 at the grade school level and is expected to climb to 1 out of 2 in the next 15 years.
Please take some time to listen to my appearance on the John B. Wells show that recently aired on Coast to Coast radio where I share the truth of positive and negative eugenics, vaccines and the effects that they have on society.
Thank you and keep spreading the truth….
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2016-06-08 08:12:002021-03-07 19:38:02John B. Wells Show on Coast to Coast Radio
One of the greatest mysteries of my life is, why do the good suffer and the evil get rewarded.
How the Evil of Eugenics Shaped Greg Wyatt
This is just a brief synopsis and timeline of how eugenics shaped me into the person I am today.
Spring 1937 – At the age of 13 Herbert Wyatt is placed into the Nebraska State Home for Feeble Minded Youth in Beatrice Nebraska by Nebraska Social Services. His crime? He was poor and came from a broken family with an alcoholic step-father. He never went to court.
Fall 1948 – After 11 years of living in an insane asylum he was released at the age of 24. There was one condition for his parole. He would be (eugenically) sterilized so he could not ever have a child or family of his own.
Spring 1949 – Herbert meets Betty, a shy and overweight Minnesota farm girl. Six Weeks later they are married.
Spring 1954 – After 5 years of childlessness Herbert tearfully confesses his (eugenicial) incarnation in the asylum and his fear that if he would have told her the truth that she would not of married him.
Summer 1954 – Betty reads a mystery magazine about (eugenics) artificial insemination and the next week visits her doctor and explains the situation. He meets with both Betty and Herbert and they decide to go through the procedure. He assures them a donor will be selected that has the same physical characteristics as Herbert and that it should be a secret only known to them. They are to tell no one under any circumstances.
September 9, 1954 – Betty is inseminated via eutelegensis, (eugenicial) artificial insemination. There is only one donor available at the time. A tall broad shouldered Dutch Immigrant who waited 6 years to immigrate and his wife to America. He is working on his doctorate at the University of Nebraska and his wife is pregnant and seeing the same doctor as Betty.
June 8, 1955 – Betty gives birth to a healthy baby boy. Herbert cannot believe that he now a father. They name him Gregory.
1956 – Wanting a bigger family Betty tries artificial insemination again and again with no results.
1959 – Greg is now 4 years old. He is meeting his milestones at an astounding pace. It is evident that he is way ahead of children his age. Betty takes him to the University of Nebraska where his IQ is tested at 167.
1960 – The secret starts to fracture Betty and Herbs fragile relationship. Herb works 60+ hours a week in a cement plant for minimum wage. Herbert loves his son Greg like his own flesh and blood. Wherever Herb goes he takes his son Greg with him stating proudly “That’s my boy.”
1961 – Bettys quest for a larger family becomes an obsession. They give up on artificial insemination and apply for adoption. Knowing of Herbs incarceration at the Nebraska State Home of Feebleminded Youth, the State of Nebraska, Department of Social Services deny the application on the grounds that they are not fit for a larger family. Betty is crushed and the resentment towards Herbert festers and grows as her depression grows.
1962 through 1964 – Betty seeks out other alternatives and begins to take in foster children. She just wants to love and be loved. It is sad for Greg as not one foster child stays longer than 6 months. Greg longs for a brother and sister.
1965 – Betty hears on television of the plight of tens of thousands of abandoned orphans in Korea.
While social services would not approve the Wyatts for adoption of white American children they approved them for a mixed race international adoption. (eugenics/social engineering). The Wyatts begin the adoption process.
1966 – The adoption process is now complete and Lisa arrives. She is almost a year old. Betty, Herb and Greg are ecstatic. Several months later Betty begins her quest to adopt another Korean orphan.
1967 – The second adoption process is now complete and Jodi arrives from Korea. She is also almost a year old.
1968 – Betty becomes focused on her two new family members. Herb continues his 60+ hour work week, working at minimum wage. With the expanded family members it is no longer is enough to pay for the necessities and debt slowly begins to pile up.
1969 – Greg is now 14 and is growing up quickly with little to no supervision or guidance neither parent has time to spend with him. Betty is focused exclusively on the girls now 2 and 3 years old. Herbert leaves at 6am and gets home at 6pm. The arguing over money issues intensities and Greg at the age of 14 decides to find a job. He starts a lawn mowing business, gets a paper route, saves his money and buys a motorcycle against his mom’s wishes and finds freedom.
December 1970 – Greg gets home from school and finds an empty home. All the furniture is gone, the car is gone and there is a 30 day notice to vacate on the front door due to bankruptcy. Homelessness becomes reality. Greg quits high school and gets a full time job.
January 1971 – Panicked and with less than $200 in funds Betty searches for a place for the family to live. She finds a small vacant and abandoned home with broken windows and a red tagged furnace that is listed for lot value only. The real estate broker is compassionate and caring and agrees to sell the home for $75 down and $75 a month for 10 years. Greg quits high school and gets a job.
Spring 1971 – 1973 The Wyatt family is now on life support. Betty starts a sewing shop to help the growing costs of raising family. She grows depressed and lashes out at Herb who quietly absorbs her constant anger towards him. Despite this Herb loves his children unconditionally and is dedicated to them. He is now working 60+ hours a week for minimum wage an a failing attempt to keep his sinking family afloat.
Easter Sunday 1973 – Greg’s friend invites him over to a party where the crowd is smoking pot, listening to rock music and having a good time. Greg is offered a toke several times and declines. After an hour or two he gives in. He likes the friendship and the comradeship of his new found friends.
April 1973 – Less than a month attending the parties a biker named Bear offers Greg a way to make some money and fronts him an ounce of pot for $50 and explains that he can divide it up in quarter ounces, sell them for $20 and make a profit of $30. By now most of Greg’s friends are all smoking it and it is easy to get rid of.
May 1973 – In the next few weeks Greg parties and sells pot for Bear. Greg doesn’t know that Bear got busted shortly after they met. Bear sets up Greg and 3 dozen others to avoid prison time and the largest drug bust in Nebraska history takes place. At 17 Greg is the youngest arrested.
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2016-05-06 08:32:452021-03-09 18:56:41How the Evil of Eugenics Shaped Greg Wyatt – Part 1
This video shows women being sterilized by evil men just decades ago. Now those evil men work a system of indoctrination where women sterilize themselves with birth control, undernourishment and a host of other self abuses that inhibits the body from reproducing. The key to all current government (ruling family) manipulations is to trick the population into doing to themselves, what the ruling families could only dream of decades ago.
Unfortunately, this video was removed from Youtube!
Original Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZAgWivCuVhE
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2016-04-14 05:57:152021-03-07 19:16:30by Jason Christoff
Eugenics Child is the true story of my conception through eugenical manipulation and how it has continued to affect my family over 50 years later.
EUGENICS CHILD – DEATH BY VACCINE
I looked over at my young son as we drove to the doctor’s office for his appointment. Weston was comfortably strapped in his car seat, looking out the window toward the morning sunlight that was starting to warm the clear winter day.
It was Groundhog’s Day in 2001, the second day of February. Groundhog folklore would insist that winter was going to last for another six weeks, since the groundhog would certainly see his shadow on such a sunny day. But the splendid day had me convinced that spring time was going to come early.
“Weston, my birthday boy,” I said loudly. “Daddy sure loves you!” Weston’s cocoa eyes briefly glanced over my way and then turned to look out the window again. His profile was that of an angel. He was three years old and curious, but Weston had not yet reached the milestones of average children his age.
While most toddlers were capable of speech at this stage, Weston struggled to vocalize simple words, even though he’d been receiving daily speech therapy for the past year. He was labeled “speech delayed” a year earlier by a social worker, so we began speech therapy in earnest, hoping to aid his developing mind in every possible way. Yet, Weston had made little progress during his year of twice daily therapy sessions and our consistent attempts to draw him into communication.
There was no medical explanation given to us by doctors as to the cause of this delay. The comforting words that I’d heard from friends would often replay in my mind, “Boys always speak later than girls. There’s nothing wrong. Just give him a little more time and he’ll be talking up a storm.”
I had also thought about genius Albert Einstein’s inability to speak until the age of five. Weston could have Einstein Syndrome, a label given to extremely intelligent people who have a delay in speech. A powerful mind could be developing behind Weston’s sweet brown eyes.
The annual exam was being carried out by Dr. Cunningham, a child psychologist with thirty years of experience and a lofty reputation. I was anticipating a brief rundown on Weston’s progress, and suggestions for more therapy. My wife Joyce and I were fully aware of the fact that our son was still lagging behind normal standards, so we believed that we could predict the outcome of the exam.
I was confident that all was relatively well, so I took Weston to the appointment alone, while Joyce stayed behind to finish the birthday preparations for Weston’s big day. Joyce loved to go all out for everyone’s birthday party.
I pulled into the parking lot of the expansive office and cut the engine, surveying the beautifully landscaped grounds. I thought of the day ahead. I was eager to get back home to begin our party, after which I planned to take Weston up to our rustic cabin for a father and son sleep over – boy’s night out!
Weston was moaning and screaming while we sat in the waiting room. He began to hit his head with his closed fist, screaming louder. I spoke gently to him and attempted to soothe him.
Soon, Dr. Cunningham appeared, stopping just short of the entrance into the room. Weston became quiet and stared at her for a moment. Dr. Cunningham was an older woman in her early seventies. She wore her professional demeanor in a stiff manner, similar to her molded beehive hairdo.
“Good morning, Mr. Adams. Please follow me,” she said. We were escorted to an exam room where I gathered Weston onto my lap.
“Mr. Adams, I will begin this assessment using a series of standardized Bailey Scales and Vineyard Development tests. This will allow me to further analyze your son’s advancements in the last year and give us a look at his mental capabilities.” She had the manner of a typical psychologist; an air of polite detachment was foremost in her approach. She proceeded to bring out a wooden chest that held a variety of colorful blocks, beads, and puzzles.
“Mr. Adams, you can take a seat in the waiting room. I will let you know when we’re finished with the testing,” She said, turning away from me.
Time went by very slowly as I waited. I imagined myself leaving the office with positive news to bring home to my wife. I knew Joyce was probably knee deep in balloons, streamers, and bows while still tending to Weston’s little sister, Emily.
We had adopted both of our children from the same young couple, so Weston and Emily were full-blooded siblings. Joyce and I had tried unsuccessfully to have biological children for over three years, including two attempts with In Vitro Fertilization. We wanted children very much, as we were both over forty years old, so we were quite ready for the commitment of raising a family.
We finally decided to adopt a child, lining up a private attorney to handle the process. We created a glowing package to promote ourselves to biological mothers who would be choosing a family for their baby.
Joyce and I had laughed together when she cut out a cute baby photo from a magazine and placed it on the living room table. We were invigorated by our mutual anticipation. We’d already picked out the names Weston and Emily, so all we needed was a baby to go with one of them.
Only three months later, we received the news that a baby boy was soon to be delivered by a mother who had chosen us to be his parents. We were so thrilled! And before long, we were in the delivery room with this young mother in labor, whom we’d grown familiar with during our frequent communication leading up to the birth of our son.
Weston was born healthy and whole. We were quite privileged to be in the delivery room to behold the miracle of new life, our son’s perfect entrance into the world. I was soon supporting the brand new boy in my arms, feeling profoundly overjoyed. His eyes gazed into mine. He blinked and moved his little hand in the air. That was the moment when I became a father.
I was in awe of his fragility, anxious to keep his tiny body safe in my arms. He had a mop of soft brown hair and a heart-shaped face. His enormous doe eyes held sheer innocence and the mystery of life. My eyes welled up with warm tears of happiness. My son had arrived, and he was coming home with us to stay.
When the nurse came to take him away to be given a vaccination, we stopped her. “Oh no, thank you,” Joyce insisted. “He won’t be getting any vaccinations right now.”
Joyce had read about an alarming trend that was occurring more often in children. It was called autism, and it was already being linked to vaccines. (1) We elected to wait until Weston was a little older to begin the immunization schedule of more than twenty doses of vaccines in the first year of life, hoping to give his young body more time to develop and adapt to the environment. (2)
Weston was quite healthy during his first year; he never even suffered from a cold. We felt lucky to have such a strong child. His doctor continued to ask us when we would begin the series of shots. We were reassured by the doctor that it was what was best for our child. Because Weston was so healthy, we agreed that he was strong enough to proceed.
He was given his first series of vaccinations when he was eleven months old. The medical staff helped hold him down while he was injected with multiple vaccines. We were scheduled to come back two months later for him to receive more injections. He screamed all the way home that day and later on into the night.
He also vomited that evening more times than we could count. For weeks afterward he would end up vomiting six to twelve times a night, writhing and crying in pain. This turned into months of frequent vomiting. His body was trying to get rid of something, and it wasn’t giving up. He experienced harsh symptoms for over a year.
Weston would spike high fevers, lying ravaged by fatigue, drenched in sweat after crying and screaming for hours. He was frequently listless, with no energy or appetite, until later growing frantic in his discomfort again. He would thrash around, grabbing his clothing, pulling at his hair, screaming and crying in a high-pitched wail.
He was often exhausted, worn out, attacked by something that he couldn’t even speak to us about. After hours and hours of distress and pain, it became incredibly stressful to watch him suffer, while we were unable to help him.
Weston began making repetitious movements and odd sounds. It was alarming to see such a profound change in our child. This change appeared directly related to receiving the vaccinations, but our doctor assured us each time we returned that it was not. He said that the cause of Weston’s illness must be due to different viruses that he’d caught, being so young and vulnerable, or environmental issues, or perhaps food allergies.
We were told that no long-term ill effects had been proven to be caused by the vaccinations, that they could only cause a short-term reaction. I didn’t rest so easily in this supposed fact. I knew that historically there were numerous other vaccines that had proven to be dangerous and harmful, and they were discontinued due to this fact. (3)
The doctor told us to give him Tylenol for pain, which didn’t seem to help him. We later found out that acetaminophen exacerbates the intestinal damage that certain ingredients in vaccinations can cause, especially in children. (4) No wonder he was vomiting nearly every night; we’d been told to give him something that could increase the attack on the lining of his entire intestinal tract.
Joyce was the strong one who stayed up all through the long nights, trying to soothe our boy, cleaning up after him. He was over two years-old before most of the intense flu-like symptoms abated, but he still experienced lingering ill effects.
We thought that his speech delay could be caused in part by the severity and length of his weakened state. We were finally hopeful that the worst was behind us, that Weston was on his way to growing into a fine young man with a bright future.
We’d known his biological parents, who were healthy and functional, so we’d ruled out a link to anything unusual in his immediate family history. I never once regretted adopting him; I just wanted him to feel better, and I wanted to be able to restore his health. He was my only son, blood-related or not.
I’d also been raised by a non-biological father. Just as my father Harry had raised an “adopted” son, I was raising an adopted son. Though, I hadn’t known that I was adopted until I was 28 years old. It took me years to digest the complete web of my beginnings, and I’m still unraveling some of the hidden threads today.
My mother and father tried to have children, but this goal was doomed from the start, as my father had a history that he’d hidden for years from my mother out of shame. After four years of trying, they could only watch their friends continue to bring home babies from the hospital.
My father finally told my mother that he was unable to have children. He confessed the truth of his sterility: that he had been locked up in an institution and placed under a knife to gain his freedom.
As a troubled youth with a viciously abusive stepfather, Harry had a few run-ins with the law for petty thievery. His family was so poor that he began to steal out of desperation. He was caught several times, and subsequently forced into the Beatrice State Home for Feeble-minded Youth in Nebraska, where he would end up being misdiagnosed as severely mentally retarded.
He withdrew into himself while he was confined, suffering the hardship and horrors of imprisonment for more than four years. No one will ever know the full extent of the loneliness and fear that he had experienced while trapped inside the walls of that institution.
The confinement took place during a formative time in his life, when a young adult developed his identity and learned how to function in the world. Harry could only learn from the other inmates and the staff.
His release from captivity was contingent upon him relenting to a sterilization surgery so that he could never reproduce children. He wanted to leave that dreadful prison, so he agreed and signed his name on the consent form.
The U.S. eugenics program had created a permanent victim in my father, and this legacy would touch many more lives to come. Harry was not able to have his own children due to the U.S. government and their policies regarding “unfit” people and their lack of human rights. (5)
Even after his confession, my parents remained steadfastly together, still hoping to somehow add a child to their family. My mother had learned about In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) from a magazine article, and when she’d asked her doctor about it, he said that he knew how to perform the procedure.
After agreeing with the doctor to use sperm provided by an anonymous donor, my mother had the IVF procedure. My father was aware of the choice to use a donor, and he went along with it to please my mother and to create a family. The procedure was successful, and I was born nine months later to ecstatic parents.
Harry did not become the man that he was supposed to become due to his confinement, and it was apparent in his humble ways. He lived with the shame of his institution stay. And yet, he was always grateful for everything. He was the hardest working person I’ve ever met, physically laboring 60-70 hours every week to feed his family. He never complained.
My father never knew that I’d learned the truth about my donor father from my mother when I was twenty-eight, that he was not my “real” father. He’d always doted on me, just like a real son. No one would have known that we were not blood-related.
He worked so hard to maintain our meager lifestyle and support the structure of our family, yet he was never harsh or gruff. He was always caring and considerate to me and my sisters (they adopted two foreign born children years later).
I hoped to be as devoted a parent to my children as my father had been to me. I felt that I loved Weston and Emily even more than biological children, because we had strived for so long to have a family, and our dream had finally come true. They were our lifelong prize. I would do anything for my children.
Dr. Cunningham emerged from the room forty-five minutes later. Weston ran to me and scrambled onto my lap, wrapping his arms around my neck.
“Please come into my office, Mr. Adams.” I carried Weston as we followed Dr. Cunningham’s rigid back down the hallway.
In the office, I sat across the wide oak desk from her. She cleared her throat.
“I’m afraid that I have some bad news,” she began. She shuffled papers and appeared somewhat uncomfortable. I held Weston tightly for a moment, and he groaned in frustration. I felt my heart begin to beat faster as I worked to soothe Weston into sitting for another minute.
“I have totaled the scores from the various tests.” She paused, looking at me with no emotion. “In evaluating your son’s progress over the last year, he appears to be significantly delayed.” She gazed down at the paperwork in her hands, avoiding my eyes.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
The term “significantly delayed” was already burning a hot meaning into my psyche. I felt the room suddenly become very small. The moment felt surreal; I wanted to back up and start the day over, but time continued to move me forward.
“What I mean, Mr. Adams, is that your son Weston is significantly delayed and functioning in the moderate to severe level of mental retardation. I’m truly sorry,” she said, looking away from us. “You should just take him home and make him comfortable. He’s never going to be anything.”
I froze. It seemed that time had finally stopped along with me. My world came crashing to a halt as the reality of her words penetrated my mind: severe mental retardation. Not my boy, no, he was just beginning his life! I wanted to deny the raw impact of her statement, but I couldn’t find solid ground as my mind searched for a way out.
The images that I’d held of future moments in Weston’s life were dissolving as I sat there: his first day of Kindergarten, teaching him to ride a bike, fly a summer kite, news of his first girlfriend, high school sports achievements, my adoring grandchildren…
“Exactly what do you mean?” I heard myself ask.
“As I said…” she began methodically.
“Well, say it again!” I snapped, knowing it wasn’t her fault, but I was having trouble controlling my emotions and my thoughts. How could she be so calm? Because it was my child, not hers, my mind informed me.
“Your son has an IQ of 47. Unfortunately, he will never be like other children. He will grow, but at a much slower pace than others his age. As he gets older, his shortcomings will become more and more evident, and more pronounced,” she stated matter-of-factly.
I felt as if I were falling off a steep cliff, having just been pushed over the edge by the doctor’s easily spoken words. I held onto Weston for balance in the numb silence that followed her declaration. He slipped away from my firm hug and set out to amble around the room. I bent over in the chair, putting my head between my legs. Oh God, why this?
The words “severely retarded” and “never going to be anything” repeated themselves in my mind. How could God be so cruel? Not my boy, please! I realized that the odds that I’d thought were in my favor from having a life fraught with challenges and turmoil were not in my favor after all.
A new life had begun for me at that moment; the old life was smashed apart in a single moment. I’d waited all of my life to have a son, and this woman had just told me that he was nothing, to just take him home.
Thoughts of my adoptive father rushed into my mind. He had been misdiagnosed as severely mentally retarded. Now, my son was facing the same label. How could history repeat itself so succinctly when we weren’t even blood related?
What would be Weston’s fate when he became an adult? A chill crept over my being. When Joyce and I were no longer alive to care for him, how would he survive? Would he have to be institutionalized one day, just like my father?
I couldn’t even process all of the frightening potentials for my child. My mind tried to cling to any shred of hope. My father had been misdiagnosed, so perhaps Weston was not correctly diagnosed.
I grabbed the paperwork and left the office with Weston in tow. Sitting in my car, I decided to call my wife and have her meet me at the office. I wasn’t fit to drive yet. I didn’t tell Joyce the news on the phone, choosing instead to wait until we were together to deliver the information.
When Joyce arrived, I had to cover my tear-stained eyes with sunglasses as we went back inside to confront the doctor. I wasn’t handling the situation so well. The doctor finally saw us, and we listened to her give the same diagnosis.
“He’s not severely mentally retarded,” Joyce interrupted. “He probably has autism!”
The doctor stared at Joyce for a moment, taken aback. “Well, I don’t know much about autism,” she replied.
Joyce was very angry, and I was still shocked and devastated. We left the building and convened in the parking lot…..
https://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.png00Greg Wyatthttps://gregwyatt.net/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Logo_04-300x94.pngGreg Wyatt2016-02-13 19:18:062021-03-07 18:52:38Why I Fight
Thanks for posting this. You are the second person to contact me today via FB letting me know that this also happened to your families also. There is alot of suppressed history over the last several centuries and even since the beginning of time. We think as humans were so smart, so intelligent. The reality is we know little to nothing but think we know everything… smh
Click on the image to view the article pin PDF format: